


The Artful Dodger

by levitatethis



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:18:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan knows an opportunity when he sees one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artful Dodger

  
_“That’s all there is  
Roll the dice  
This is all there is  
Roll the dice  
How now baby is a little bit enough of it  
When you live a double life?”_   
**-Matthew Good, ** _ **Double Life** _

  
**I**

Ryan pushes the mop along the infirmary’s floor with little due diligence for the work at hand, paying far more discerning attention to the bodies that fill the rows of beds.

Stabbings, flu, sexual assault—it’s a Sodom and Gomorrah free for all which he’s personally managed to escape by strategically manipulating the downfall of others. It’s a talent well honed with patience—and trial and error. As long as he’s not the one in the bed, subject to the mercy of others, he’s ahead of the bloody curve.

Softly whistling, _‘It Had To Be You,’_ he briefly notes Alvarez sleeping in the bed located at the far corner (looking like death warmed over) and Rebadow sitting up in a bed two over staring right back at him with the barest hint of a smile and looking a little too pleased as punch. Ryan’s about to snap a witty retort his way when a snort of disbelieving laughter sounds out from the open office door. A quick glance reveals the slightly obstructed view of Gloria, a half smile lighting up her face, shaking her head at a magazine she’s holding while Sister Pete, her arms folded across her chest, waits for her to finish. Ryan narrows his eyes inquisitively at whatever it is that has Gloria’s absolute attention.

“It’s the journalist’s article.”

Ryan looks back over his shoulder at Rebadow. “What?”

Rebadow clasps his hands together, resting them on his lap. “The journalist who came to visit a few months ago has sent a copy of his published story.”

An image flashes in Ryan’s brain of a young man (_thirty_?) with shaggy red hair and a medium build (_like a cross between an overgrown college kid and someone’s cool young uncle—the kind you tell secrets to, only realizing too late you should have kept your fucking mouth shut_), with a (_too_) curious stare, but friendly…

Dash Hendrin (_and what kind of fucking name was that_?) was a Rolling Stone writer who had visited Oz no less than five times three months earlier in the hopes of “drawing attention to the invisible population of the United States.” He was a slew of fancy words strung together, a disarming laugh and a meticulous observer. Of course, Ryan didn’t trust him. And judging by Gloria’s current reaction to said article, his first impression was right.

“God tell you that’s what she’s doing?” Ryan raises an eyebrow.

His voice ever soft and reflective, Rebadow replies, “He keeps me apprised.”

Ryan smirks and clutches the mop handle, resting his chin on the rounded tip. “Glad to hear God’s got His priorities in order.” There’s a pause during which nothing more is said and then Ryan continues cleaning the floor, slowly making his way closer to office. He needs to get his hands on the magazine to see if anything he said has been immortalized on paper. He needs to know if damage control is necessary.

“I can get it for you.”

Ryan stops and narrows his eyes at Rebadow, but silently wonders if God really is speaking to the old man. He walks over, dragging the mop across the floor and pushing the bucket of soapy water along with his foot. “What makes you think I give a shit about it?” He leans into Rebadow’s space.

Never looking away, Rebadow says, “It’s the third time she’s read the article today. I believe he included a personalized note for her to call him.”

Ryan’s chest tightens and his stomach flips. Jealousy and anger draw a bitter taste to his tongue but he fights to keep his emotions under wraps. After a quick look back at a smiling Gloria, he asks, “What did you have in mind?”

****

II

In the privacy of the locked pod, Ryan makes a few passes through the Rolling Stone article. First he flips through it, briefly stopping a couple of times to look over the accompanying photographs while trying to find any bits about himself and Cyril. The second time he peruses it, mentally noting any details about his fellow prisoners which he can use down the road.

_*All of the prisoners names have been changed to protect them and their families_

It’s a useless gesture Ryan figures is meant to make Hendrin and his bosses feel better about dragging the reality of bitter rivalries and battling personalities out in public. Names may have been altered but the pictures give away enough. The truth is it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who made the cut and, besides the Aryans in Unit B, Em City’s contribution to the bulk of the final piece is damn obvious.

Adebisi, the Italians, Hoyt, even the fucking fags are clear as day. It’s no surprise that Said earns himself a few paragraphs, as does Beecher under the code name ‘Blaine’ (which is only one notch closer to sounding like an over-privileged, country club pussy than the name, ‘Tobias’). His own mention is tied up in Cyril’s and Ryan has to go over their part of the story a few times to ascertain whether Hendrin calls Cyril a retard without using the word.

His third time through the article he stares at the photographs which are a mixture of colour and black and white. He skips over the obviously staged ones of the staff (one of Glynn in some ‘oh-so-serious’ discussion with Murphy and Mineo makes him roll his eyes), instead choosing to study the ones of his illegally minded cohorts.

There’s a candid shot of the cafeteria during lunch rush, a rainbow segregation coalition; the gloom of Unit B populated by angry white faces and pissed off black ones; the isolation of solitary (a hallway of locked doors and the ominous figure of Officer Howell at the end of it, arms folded across her chest as she stares down the camera) and Death Row; the nonsensical camaraderie of Unit J. There’s even a photo of Beecher working in Sister Pete’s office, typing away at the computer while she goes over a file.

There are two set in Em City. One is a low angle shot from the center of the quad looking up at McManus, standing at the guard’s station, his hands braced on the top rail, and the blurry figures of the inmates in their pods looking out—the court jester admiring the kingdom.

The second photo causes Ryan to raise the magazine closer so he can carefully inspect it. The image is a busy one of the quad with everyone passing time. It’s deliberately mixed focus with parts of the image out of focus. In the foreground a few bodies occupy the tables, some of the folks (like Rebadow, Busmalis and Hill) playing cards while others appear to be in conversation. In the background a group (with their backs to the camera) is gathered by the televisions. Ryan’s attention wanders to the stairs, just right of the group. He can just make out the affectionate expression on his own face as he listens to whatever story his brother is telling.

The last picture Ryan recalls taking with his brother is from the year before the attack that left Cyril with the mental capacity of a child. They were cocky back then, brimming with overconfidence and a reckless streak. Now there’s a wondrous and scary innocence forever etched in the lines of Cyril’s face which occasionally turns into a frustrated pout or whiny tantrum. Ryan feels overwhelming concern for him begat of love and guilt, something he never thought he’d be so driven by.

Some days—many in fact—he hates the twisted karma which took his brother away and turned him into Cyril’s keeper. In the balance of the other days, however, he’s nearly undone by the love he feels for him—

“I can’t sleep.”

Ryan looks up from the picture at Cyril who is tossing and turning in the bottom bunk. “Close your eyes and pretend.”

Cyril pouts. “Can you tell me a story?”

“Later,” Ryan dismissively says and tries to go back to reading.

“But Ryan—,”

“Later!”

Cyril snaps his mouth shut and Ryan stares down at the photo again. He recognizes the yearning gaze in Cyril’s frozen face and understands the hand he played in his brother’s turned life. There’s a cross to carry now. And it’s all his. With a sigh, Ryan closes the magazine and sits on the edge of Cyril’s bunk. He can’t help grinning at the tiny smile that settles on Cyril’s face in anticipation.

“Once upon a time…” Ryan begins.

**III**

The tension in Em City is unnerving with everyone waiting for the inevitable explosion, but secretly hoping it won’t happen or when it does erupt it will be quick. As usual, up to twice a week, it involves Keller and Beecher fighting over God knows what. Every time it happens fluid battle lines are drawn. Normally Ryan wouldn’t give two shits, but when they fight Beecher turns stubborn and a bit daredevil and Keller, despite all too blatant actions to the contrary, gets distracted. Given the already precarious nature of calm in Em City, Ryan can’t afford to lose them as allies to a weekly lovers quarrel.

But everyone has noticed the rift, going on day two of near silent treatment (except for the random sarcastic jab). Still, as tempting as it surely is to take advantage, there’s nervousness about pushing too hard, too early—no one knows if Beecher will go crazy again or if Keller snap like a guard dog at anyone who dares to breach their space. People want to play them like pawns but no one wants to stick their neck out and risk losing their head.

While Keller and Hill play chess, Ryan flips through the magazine for the twentieth time, sensing Keller’s attention drift from the game to Beecher who passes by them on his way to the laundry room. Keller catches Ryan watching him.

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

Ryan considers his answer when Hoyt, sitting at the next table over, tries to snatch the magazine out of his hands.

“C’mon man! You’ve been hogging that thing.”

“Got twenty bucks?” Ryan asks coolly.

“Fuck you,” Hoyt scrunches up his face. “What are you doing? Memorizing it?”

Ryan ignores him and goes back to reading the dog-eared copy in his hands.

“You know, if you made photocopies you could sell those and then no one would get in your face,” Hill points out, moving his knight and eliciting a thoughtful furrowing of Keller’s brow.

The idea of easy money trips a subtle smile along Ryan’s lips and his mind immediately plays connect the dots for who could get their hands on a photocopy machine without being hassled. At the same time he notices something in one of the photos, something he hadn’t seen before. It’s a small thing, seemingly inconsequential, except not. He missed it the first few times, but now it’s all he can see.

_Two birds, one stone_, he thinks and stands up, sparing a quick glance at the chessboard before heading off to his pod to grab some dirty laundry.

**IV **

Leaning forward on the rumbling washing machine, occasionally flipping the pages to a magazine he has no interest in reading, Ryan steals peeks at Beecher who is sitting on the table at the side of the room, slowly going through the Rolling Stone article. Ryan muffles a smile as he considers the (very likely) possibility Beecher finished the piece at least ten minutes ago and has been staring at one photo in particular ever since.

For all of Beecher’s surprising show of strength—in mind and body—there’s still that extra ounce of humanity he seems to have versus most of the lost souls in this place. It’s a weakness, in Ryan’s opinion, but he’s also counting on it to benefit his own small business inclinations. If there’s a way for cash to be made, he is willing to consider shifting the necessary players into position.

The photo in question is more than a snapshot of a day in the life of Em City. It’s more than a card game or guys watching television, it’s more than a time capsule of the O’Reily brothers. It’s a testament to something greater, forever caught in time.

Ryan is counting on Toby’s heart.

Beyond the fuzzy edges and sharp middle lines of familiar faces are two figures, their backs to the camera, mixed in with the group of faceless men watching television. It’s notable because public displays of affection are a silent fighting point for Beecher and Keller. Yet, somehow the photographer managed to capture a rare moment between them. Keller has his left arm curved up Beecher’s back, his hand resting on the back of Beecher’s neck. Keller’s face is slightly turned towards him as if he’s in the middle of saying something for Beecher’s ears only. Beecher, in turn, is leaning ever so slightly _into_ the touch, _into _Keller’s space.

It’s a show of closeness that should be regarded as the detrimental act it is. It’s too revealing, too familiar, and since neither of these guys is like the rest of the gays, and they’re certainly not part of Adebisi’s sexcapades, Ryan finds it difficult to explain. On one level he thinks he gets what draws them to each other—the closeness of the connection they share that no one else gets a piece of. But to admit to that…

Beecher’s more the anomaly. Keller’s reputation is to fuck or be fucked in all its glorious forms. Beecher, on the other hand, was John Q. Public, straight up as they come outside, bland at every turn with just the hint of personality. Sure he turned out to be a hell of a lot more than anyone anticipated, but falling _in love_ with another man? A man capable of frightening (enviable) brutality? One who regards Beecher with the same intent? The one what makes even Ryan nervous on a good day? It’s a far cry from penthouses high tea on a Sunday.

But there it is.

Beecher isn’t difficult to read. He’s a man with vices, they all are. However, there’s a hint of innocence that remains, not (yet) beaten out by Oz. Beecher is the kind of person who would want to hold onto it, would quietly cherish it; need it to remind him of what’s still possible. He’d want a fucking keepsake.

Ryan might even be willing to part ways with the original source material as long as he maintains control of any subsequent copies and keeps Beecher (and Keller by extension) in his corner. He watches Beecher thumb the page, his expression unrevealing. Then Beecher looks up and returns Ryan’s watchful gaze. Ryan can see the wheels turning in Beecher’s head.

He grins.

**V**

Eyes forward on the television and Miss Sally’s bouncing tits, Ryan lightly pats his right pant pocket, enough to reassure himself of the tidy sum recently acquired without drawing unwanted attention.

Something he learned before coming to Oz, but truly put into practice when survival dictated it, was that money can be made by way of precisely played suggestion—that is, convincing people to think they need something.

With a little thought and maneuvering anyone could have gotten their hands on the stupid magazine. Hell, a truckload of copies could have been delivered. But few think beyond the tip of their nose. A precisely worded rumor here (something about how Glynn felt the article was inflammatory and ordered all incoming copies to be confiscated), an offhand remark there, the dangling of a “cheap” price and the positioning of himself as the middleman culminated in a nice cash grab.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Keller sit down in the chair to his right. Ryan shifts in his seat and drops his shoulders nonchalantly, letting his hands rest in his lap. Most would think he looks relaxed, uncaring or unbothered. He’s aware that Keller knows better. He also senses a distinct change in tension emanating from Keller. He’s far more at ease now than he’s been the last few days. Obviously he and Beecher have sorted out their most recent round of differences.

After a silent minute, Keller says, “Making money off the desperate masses, O’Reily?”

“Just exercising a new business venture, K-Boy.”

“You mean exploiting.”

“Hey man, you’re just pissed you didn’t think of it yourself.”

Keller lolls his head in Ryan’s direction, one eyebrow raised and a good-natured smirk gracing his lips. “I was…preoccupied.”

Ryan turns in his seat to meet his gaze more directly. With a glance past Keller to the pod he shares with Beecher, Ryan says, “Speaking of which—you’re welcome.”

Any trace of amusement leaves Keller’s face. “For what?” He narrows his eyes. When Ryan doesn’t respond, instead turning his attention back to the television, Keller mutters, “Fucking Irish Cupid,” under his breath.

A good con man works the angles, always to his advantage. Once in awhile, however, others reap the benefits as well—though they may not know or care to show any appreciation. Gratitude can be weakness if misconstrued. It’s different than being indebted. Everyone in here owes someone else a debt of sorts. Surviving one day to the next is proof of that.

Cautious and mindful of everyone around him, Ryan loses interest in Miss Sally and lets his mind wander to his next move, the follow up scheme and takedown extraordinaire. He’s riding a high from the current one, as simple and relatively mundane as it was. He could cut Keller in as a token of goodwill which would mean involving Beecher, but he’d rather not risk the distraction the two of them would certainly be for each other. Although he could use it to his advantage…

Ryan rubs his hand over his pocket again, feeling the added bulk from the folded bills inside. Opportunities are everywhere. One just needs to know where to look and how to recognize them. He thinks about Gloria and a small smile twitches up the corners of his lips. The best opportunities are unexpected; the ones you trip over and then make for yourself. Those are a godsend in a place like this. They make the days matter.

They make the days _better_.

Ryan doesn’t wait for the other shoe to drop. He tends to send it hurtling to the floor. _Tomorrow_ is what he sets in motion today.

And today is ripe for the picking.  
 


End file.
